Backlash
by Cassandra or Bonkers pehaps
Summary: Basically a story dealing with Irina's past and what happens between her and Jack when Sydney is gone. Rating subject to change. Chapter 4 Added
1. Chapter One: Motel Thoughts

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Disclaimer: As you should all know (common sense) these characters aren't mine. Reviews, Feedback, harsh critique, and ideas for further chapters are all VERY welcome.

Chapter 1: Motel thoughts

Irina sat cross-legged on the worn brown couch, slightly patched and frayed with age. It, along with the rest of the room's décor, conveyed a cheap, worn, and distant atmosphere, one that might be expected from a motel of it's caliber. She had been in better, that was for sure, but she had also been in worse. Besides, the woman knew she had not come to this old, semi-abandoned and all but empty building in the middle of no where for it's aesthetic pleasure. No, she was here to meet with Jack, and being that she was, last time she had bothered to check, number six on the CIA's most wanted list, anything more out and in the open would be a considerable threat to her health.

Her eyes closed, breathing slow, Irina still has a distinct sense of her surroundings. This, a form of meditation that could be used as a substitute for sleep, was a method she had mastered long ago. It gave the body needed rest, albeit not as well as a night in a warm, comfortable bed, while allowing the person to stay aware of their surroundings. She had used it before, most recently while in CIA custody, locked in a glass cell with cameras locked on her, at all times of night and day. They wondered, she knew, how she could so calmly spend day after day in such a cell, a cold steel mattress, tiny barred window, and white walls, with nothing to do but count the tiles on the ceiling and floor, and read the one book she was allowed to have. Separated from the world by two gates and several armed and well trained guards.

Why she had not seemed bothered, trapped, how she managed to keep her composure at all times. A mystery to them. Such treatment, though by American standards acceptably humane, was still unbearable to most. Those who had spent any amount of time in similar conditions would know.

A small, almost unnoticeable smile spread across her features whenever the thought would enter her mind. They had never been in Kashmir she knew, never had a taste of Soviet re-acquaintance policies and prison terms, as Irina had. This was nothing compared to what Irina had endured, nothing compared to the excruciating pain, both physical and mental, that she had felt there. It was not a fight for survival, one where body, mind and soul could be lost. Irina had taught herself the meditation techniques then, in Kashmir, and had used them when necessary ever since. She had learned a lot there, she knew, and lost even more.

Irina slowly opened her eyes and looked up at the old clock on the wall, slightly surprised that such a thing was still functioning. About half an hour left, she knew, until he would arrive. She had come early, to catch up on rest and because she had wanted to see the premises ahead of time. Not that she didn't trust Jack; In another situation he might have betrayed her, might have given her back to the CIA. Not now though, not where Sydney was concerned. A small sigh, eyelids snapped shut again. Half an hour, wondering thoughts.


	2. Chapter Two: Tears On Earth

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Disclaimer: As you should all know (common sense) these characters aren't mine. Reviews, Feedback, harsh critique (constructive please, not just random insults), and ideas for further chapters (Especially the ones taking place in the present) are all VERY welcome.

Chapter 2: -Tears on Earth-

She had never cried as much as she had that night, and the nights that followed. Overwhelming grief clenched her gut, twisted with unbearable pain, like a knife slowly driven into a still-beating heart. She was just eight then, but Irina understood, and it killed her. The images flashed in the girl's mind, each sharper than before, each provoking another flood of tears. Her father was dead now, gone, torn away from her and this world forever, and her sister Anya, just four, carried away with him.

It wasn't fair, she wanted to shout, though she had not the will, nor the breath to do so, sobbing and choking back tears as she was. A doctors visit, routine, normal, in their incredibly old, pre-war auto, rarely used as it was now, with gasoline rations small. Who would think that this one time, one ride, would turn into a fiery blaze, and an accident that would engulf them all, leaving even the living feeling so terribly numb, as though they too should be dead.

It was all she felt, and her mother, Irina knew, was no better off, locked and alone in her room, holding her now dead husbands things and weeping, desolate, not only at the loss but at the life he'd left behind. The girl sat on the floor, tear-streaked and grim-faced, eyes focused as she tried to remember her Pa. Her father had been a strong, silent man, rarely laughing, never crying, emotionally withdrawn; His angular, lined face was almost always evenly set in a most serious, slightly pondering expression. He was never very close with his daughters, she knew, but he was fair, never hitting them unless they truly deserved it, bringing some kind of small sweet on their birthdays. These she had accepted gracefully, knowing that they could do no better, that to give presents of any more would be a waste.

Her grandmother came four days after the funeral. The old woman had been living alone for several years, since her own husband had died. It was getting harder, as old age slowly caught up with her, but she had kept silent, not wanting to impose on her married children. Now that her daughter too was a widow, she saw fit to enter their lives, to bring herself into their home.

_She looked so old_. That was the first thought that entered Irina's mind when she saw her mother's mother, the impression that would stay with her the most. It was true: the woman was stooped over, bones bent from a lifetime of grueling work. Her skin was dark and wrinkled, her hair all but pure white, with deep lines etched into her face like cracks in a stone.

She went first into the room of Irina's mother, comforting her with the words and wisdom of one who had lived on this world longer, and had more experience with the hardships that life could so easily flaunt and throw into a person's face. She told the younger woman encouragements, patted and rubbed her back. Irina had watched silently through the crack of the door, a tentative feeling of warm creeping up into her soul. She too wanted to be held, hugged and told it would be all right; She was just a little girl, and wanted to be taken care of.

This however, was not what the girl got. When to older woman finally left the room and approached her granddaughter, her manner was anything but warm.

"Shame on you for carrying on so" she said. "Your mother is upset at all the loss and you do nothing but cry. You are young, and should be strong, fill in where she cannot" Cold blue eyes bore into her own, and the girl felt ashamed and at loss. She was determined not to let another wave of tears flood her face, not to let her disappointment show. Her grandmother was right, Irina knew, she should be stronger, smarter, more useful. Tears would change nothing.

The accident had been the first great sorrow that Irina Derevko would have to bear in her life, but it would not be the last. Worse, more painful things would happen to her, harder choices she would be forced to make. Never again however, would she cry, and let her pain and emotions be so obviously shown to all the world.


	3. Chapter Three: First Discussions

Chapter Three: First Discussions

The woman snapped out of her thoughts as she heard a knocking on the door. Her eyes narrowed as they opened and focused on the wooden threshold, brows slightly furrowed in concentration. The knocking continued for several more seconds, spelling out a brief message in Morse code. Not the safest, and perhaps not the most necessary idea in the world, but it would suffice. While it was always better to be safe then sorry, excessive paranoia would not do either. Besides, Irina already had far more reliable safety measures in place, and was sure Jack had done the same.

Getting up off of the couch in was seemed like one quick, fluid movement, she walked over to the door and opened it, fixing her eyes on the man who stood in the hall. As usual Jack Bristow was impeccably and professionally dressed, donning a dark gray suit and even darker tie. She wondered for a moment idly, whether he did his own ironing now: When they had been married she had always done it for him. A small smiled crossed her face at the thought; He had always insisted that his suits be done just so; It had deeply annoyed her, or Laura as she was then called, and more than once she had taken the opportunity to tell him so.

If he noticed the brief change in woman's demeanor Jack showed no signs of it, instead choosing to silently enter the motel room, scanning it for a moment before uttering a word. The parallel between this room and Panama was not lost on him, though he deeply doubted the performance would be repeated anytime soon. This woman, Jack knew, was not to be trusted.

Why had he come then, knowing all this and more? The answer was simple. Sydney. His daughter, their daughter, had disappeared, and if she had any useful Intel, Jack was willing to work with the devil herself to bring Sydney home. This is not to say he didn't first rely on more useful sources, but after two months of turning up nothing, Jack had realized that he would need more than just what the CIA had to offer.

And so he had turned to the one person who's unique position, on the surface at least, mirrored his own. She had first contacted him several days after the fire, though perhaps 'contact' would not be the best word to describe the events that occurred. Both had been angry, both suspicious of the other's roles. Both spies with considerable skills in strategy and physical combat. Eventually they worked out the fact that neither had anything to do with the disappearance, and Jack had curtly told her to go, saying he would call if he had any information or needed help. But the phone had been silent, at least until last week.

"Irina"

"Jack"

The greetings were uttered calmly by both, Jack's expression careful, warily neutral, while Irina's held just the tiniest trace of amusement. The two stared at each other for a moment, as if both were unsure of what to do next. It was Irina who finally broke the silence, walking over to the couch and sitting down casually, her movements like that of a cat, before she spoke.

"Took you long enough to call" she said pointedly. He acknowledge the comment with a small nod.

"I wanted to check my other sources first"

_More trustworthy sources_ the words were not spoken, but they hung in the air, and both knew it to be true. She could not blame him for his suspicion, unwillingness to work with her, but it was frustrating nonetheless.

"I'm not here to trick or deceive you Jack" she told him, just a hint of exasperation in her voice. "I just want to find Sydney, like you" She sounded sincere, and he wanted to believe her. It was hard, the last week weeks had been terribly so. Jack had no one to confide in: there were others who felt the loss, Vaughn, Dixon, Will (who was going through the pain of losing two friends at once) and more. These were not, however, people to which Jack could just open up and spill his heart to.

Not that Irina fit that category either. She was manipulative, as calculating as him, probably even colder. Even now, for all he knew, this could just be another plan or agenda of sorts.

"The CIA thought it had a few leads but so far we turned up nothing. Kendall said he'd give it another two months at most, and then we'll have to presume her dead". "Most already do" he added after a pause, the pained expressions of his co-workers coming to mind. It was times like these he just wanted to drown all the pain away in a flowing river of alcohol, scotch. Numb the pain till you can feel it no more. He had taken this path once before, when his wife, or the woman he thought her to be, died. He took it to the brink.

"And you don't?" she asked, trying to keep all emotion out of her voice. It was a game they both played, working together, each careful not to give away anything more than it was worth, trying to keep anything that could be used as ammunition locked inside.

"No, I don't. It isn't consistent with the movement of the fire, no body was found. Assuming she was taken by a person or group, they would have had no reason to kill her." It was what he'd been telling himself from the beginning, even when others had disputed his claims. To his surprise Irina was nodding her head slowly.

"Yes, I was thinking along the same lines" she told him.

"Any idea who it might be"

"I have some, of who it might be, and who it is most definitely not" Her eyes moved up to meet with his, and he could not look away. The connection was still there, no matter what either of them said.

"Sloane?" he suggested.

"Perhaps, We're not on the best of terms as of now" Jack shot her a brief look of surprise.

"I would have thought the two of you would have worked that all out by now"

"Jack…" Her voice held the slightest trace of a warning, telling him she fully understood and did not appreciate the tone behind his words. He nodded again, shifting back to his calm, professional wall, the one he used to distance himself from family, friends, and her.

"We can meet in a week with relevant Intel, have a brainstorming session. Until then find out what you can" he told her. Irina nodded in response. Satisfied he turned to go, before the situation could once again get out of his control.

"Jack?" He turned around again to face her. "How are you doing? I mean, without her…?"

"Fine. I'd discuss it further but I must go, or people will get suspicious" he said, clearing his throat. Giving her one last glance the man hurried out of the room. Irina sighed as she watched him go.


	4. Chapter Four: Graduation

Chapter Four: -Graduation Day-

She stood, one of many in the neat line made up of her peers. They were all graduating today, friends and family packed in the small auditorium to watch as each student would receive a certificate of completion from a low-level government official. Irina would also be receiving another one, for she had achieved the highest scores in her grade. As she waited for the short, pudgy man to finish his long-winded and rather boring speech, the girl thought back to the last few years.

It had not been easy after her father died. They'd had to sell the small farm to a nearby collective, and her mother, refusing to stay and work there, moved them into the city, Leningrad. Their building there was small and gray, built in the prevalent style of the Soviet Era. It was a big change for Irina, to suddenly find herself in a new city, with no friends or father, going to a new school. The girl did not complain though; Instead she did her work and helped her grandmother keep the house neat and clean. Their new neighbors smiled politely and commented on the usefulness of the girl, how she did not complain or cry. Her grandmother would smile proudly then. "Yes," she would say, "Our Irina is strong".

She would watch her mother come home late at night from her second shift at the factory, tired beyond words. She would see the woman scarf down leftover soup or anything else they had for dinner and go to sleep, only to wake up promptly at five in the morning, and go to work again. She watched her mother age decades over months, knowing there was nothing she could do. It scared Irina, for she knew that she might one day be subject to the same fate. If not the factories than the farms. Perhaps she would be like Olga, who lived upstairs: the woman was barely over thirty and looked at least a decade older. She would be pregnant almost every year, already with seven children to raise, a drunkard husband who brought home little food. The smaller ones ate pieces of rag sometimes, to stoke the hunger pangs.

She observed the people around her, all part of the painful daily drudgery, work to home and work again. Even those better off were part of this pattern in some way, and it scared her, the thought that she would live and die and the world would forger her. She would be nothing.

And so Irina threw herself into the work at school, soon surpassing many of her classmates. These looked at the new girl with distaste: the little farm girl that thinks she's so good, raising her hand, doing all the work. Not even trying to make many friends. They didn't like her, but few were openly cruel: The one time a boy pushed her, she punched and gave him a bloody nose. Irina had few friends, and no one she could be close to. When with them she acted like what they expected, not what she felt and wanted.

In classes she listened to the teacher, answered questions, and argued when she thought they were wrong. Her grades were high for this, but few instructors liked her. More than once Irina was hit in the hand with a ruler or stick. It was there she learned of history and geography, and mathematics. She also learned that there was no god, no morals, learned of the history of her country, Stalin and Lenin and all.

Her mother believed still in god, Irina knew, heard her mutter a prayer from time to time. The woman made little effort to instill these beliefs in her daughter. Even if she had the time to try, it most probably would not have worked. Irina was cold even then, with far less morals than she let on. As for her grandmother, she too believed, but she had lived through the revolution, still remembered even the czar. She had supported Lenin, and even now felt far too close to the state ideals to say anything to contradict them, even behind closed doors.

Today her mother stood amongst the crowd, wearing a bright red dress, old and rarely worn. Tears were brimming over the woman's eyes as she saw her only child walk across and receive her diploma, a special comment interjected about her high grades. Irina's grandmother had stayed at home. The hacking cough she had gotten last winter was getting worse, and the Irina was fairly certain she had seen the older woman cough up blood at least once, though she had denied the accusation.

At home making the dinner, in celebration of the day, the graduation. They would sit and eat and talk, a rare occurrence. Today, her mother had taken the day off. Irina knew the what the subject would be, her future. She also knew the answer: In the fall, the girl would take classes at Leningrad University. She wanted a better education, and knew she had the grades for it. All she was lacking was money for the books.

The ceremony was over, the official sent home. Irina walked through the crowds until she found her mother, and was wrapped by the smaller woman's arms, a tear-filled hug.

"I am so proud of you" her mother had told her. "You are my daughter and make me proud". She then took off her earring, diamonds set in gold, the only possession of any real value the woman had, one she had refused to part with even in the worst of times. She pressed them in her daughter's hands, and seeing the question in the younger one's eyes, she replied:

"Your grandmother gave me these on the day I married your father and I give them to you now. No day will I be more happy for you than I am now." Irina took the gift gently cradling them in her palms. She would have many pieces of jewelry in her life, but these earrings would always be her favorite, no matter what.

The two women began the long walk home, the younger still oblivious to her fate, who would soon rush to meet her head on.


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